never mind the years of wasted time
by hypotheticalfanfic
Summary: In which there is snow on the ground, and they're safe. Arthur x Eames.


"Inception is a team game, Arthur. We need him." Dom looked tired, and older, and Arthur knew that his own face looked the same. They'd been working too hard, these last few years, making a name for themselves as the only people capable of inception. And they still were, barely — Yusuf kept them updated on Johnson's team out of Nairobi, and Ariadne let them know about the American consortium's progress, which had been startling. But for now, for at least the next six months, it's just them.

After the Fischer job, Arthur'd thought that Dom was done, that he was retired and happy to play stay-at-home-dad forever. And he was, for about a week, but then Saito casually dropped by and twenty minutes later Dom was organizing another inception job, for a different client, for twice the price. Arthur had scrambled to reassemble everyone, and had almost succeeded. But Eames had said no.

Not even said no, really. Eames had just not responded. At first, Arthur'd worried, pulled a few strings, but Eames was fine. Healthy and wealthy and simply ignoring his calls, holed up in his family's estate in Yorkshire and not talking to anyone from the field. So that ended that, and they found a decent forger, Mariana, in Reykjavik, and went on as before. But it felt strange, and hollow, and Mariana wasn't as good as Eames. She needed twice the prep work and gave half the results. Arthur tried very, very hard not to hold a grudge against her for not being Eames, but it was difficult. Regardless, they had a full team, mostly, and they pulled off job after job after job.

Three years since the Fischer job, and Arthur had made enough money to retire six times over, and Dom owned four houses and both kids could go to any three colleges they wanted, and it still wasn't enough. Dom kept pushing, kept accepting stupidly dangerous jobs, kept nagging and haggling and pleading with Arthur. So Arthur kept working, because damned if he was going to let Mal's husband kill himself with jobs run by incompetent point men who couldn't think their way out of a paper bag.

It rankled him a little, though, losing Eames like that. He'd always liked Eames, despite appearances to the contrary. His gift with forging, his creativity, the sheer talent in the man: Arthur wasn't stupid, he knew that Eames was the best. Everyone knew that, just like everyone knew that Eames had given absolutely no reason for his withdrawal from dreamwork. And Arthur knew it wasn't the money, because Eames had never needed money, ever. It was something else, something that had changed after Fischer.

Or, less likely but not inconceivable, it was something that had to do with Arthur. That was certainly a 'd worked together quite a bit early on, just after the military but before what Arthur thought of as the Bangkok Incident. That had been hellish and terrifying and they'd both taken breaks from dreamwork after that. And then, for whatever reason, they hadn't really worked together, or seen each other, or spoken. Arthur'd kept tabs on the forger, of course; part of his job, to know where the best in the field were at all times. But he'd never reached out, nor had Eames, not until Dom dragged him back from scamming casinos in Kenya. It wasn't impossible that Eames had been avoiding him, and that he'd retreated to keep from having to work with Arthur again.

But that didn't feel right, because then the job went so well. There had been something there, just like there always had. A crackle and a spark and a lot of fun, smiling under the teasing and laughing behind the sniping. They'd done it, what had been impossible weeks before, and Arthur had grinned at Eames over the baggage claim, and Eames — he'd thought that Eames had grinned back. But then they weren't at the same hotel, and then Eames's favorite alias had pinged one of Arthur's programs, leaving the country, and Arthur had chalked it up to nervous energy or another job and left it alone. Dom wanted him to stop leaving it alone now, stop letting Eames do whatever he was doing, and so Arthur booked the tickets.

He replayed it all in his head on the plane, and fell asleep remembering the way Eames had burned down a row of apartments in a dreamer's version of Singapore, the way the flames had licked at his scruffy shoes and illuminated his wild laughter, and the way Arthur had almost kissed him then, and the other million times Arthur had stared at Eames and wanted desperately to kiss him or touch him or ask him to run away together and hide in Cambodia or Iowa, anywhere they'd be free and safe together.

When he woke up, Arthur touched his lips briefly: he'd dreamed, which was rare enough, and it had been vivid and realistic, which was almost impossible. He remembered most of it: meeting Eames at the baggage claim, a fierce possessive kiss, and then the surprisingly athletic sex in the airport bathroom. He'd _dreamed_. Shit. There weren't any IV marks on the crooks of his elbows, and he didn't feel the lingering headache he always got from Somnacin, but it was odd enough that his guard stayed up through baggage claim and in the cab.

He was still nervous, edgy, when he reached the gates of the Eames family estate. The snow on the ground lapped at the ironwork and the heavy gray stone, and Arthur was forcefully reminded of how rich Eames was, really, and also how very little Arthur had been able to pull up about him other than his family tree. "This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself as he pressed a button.

Soon enough, a crisp Welsh voice asked for his name, which Arthur gave (well, a version of his name, anyway, one Eames had worked with and would remember). He also gave all of his luggage to the stocky man who asked for it, and a fingerprint check to the sallow woman just inside the gates.

"Fingerprint checks, really?" Arthur let a slip of his old accent through, hoping to disarm her with his dimples and flat Midwestern vowels. "Seems a little over-the-top. I'm just here to see a friend."

"The Eames family takes no chances, sir." She didn't meet his eyes, nor did she seem to notice his attempts at devastating charm. He waited about an hour for all the security confirmation to be accepted, and then was ushered into a small wood-paneled room with no windows. "Mr. Eames will be here shortly," the stocky man said with a gruff expression. "Please make yourself at home."

"My home doesn't have mahogany paneling and an eighteenth-century chaise lounge, but I'll try, thanks."

It was another two hours, during which Arthur almsot nodded off twice, before the door rattled slightly. Arthur stood up — he'd meant to snap to attention, but it turned out the furniture, while beautiful, was abysmally uncomfortable, and he wasn't twenty anymore.

When Eames came in, Arthur's mouth dropped ever so slightly open. "You look like shit, Eames."

"Thank you, Arthur." The forger gave a wan smile and settled carefully onto the chaise. "Your candor is much appreciated."

He really did look like shit: hands and arms laced with scars that hadn't been there last time Arthur'd seen him, a limp and a walking stick, an ugly burn down one side of his neck, disappearing under his shirt. "What happened, seriously? Who did this?"

Eames laughed. That, at least, was the same: a roar, almost, with a giggle as it tapered off, and Arthur's chest felt marginally less tight with worry. "The truth, then? A bloody stupid car accident, about a week after I got home."

Arthur stared blankly at him. "What." It wasn't a question, just a flat disbelieving noise.

"I know, I know. It's rather ironic in hindsight: all that running and jumping and guns blazing, always thinking I'd die on the next job, and instead I wrap a car around a tree going for dinner with some old mates and it all ends for me." Eames smiled, then, a real smile, and for a moment he looked the same as ever. "But here you are, and I've been a dreadful host so far, keeping you waiting so long." He ducked his head slightly. "I wasn't sure, you know. What to do."

Arthur steeled himself. He knew it was very important to handle this delicate situation carefully. "Eames, goddammit, why the fuck didn't you tell me?"

Eames looked shocked, a bit.

"Um. I mean, I'm so sorry for what happened, and I wish I had known so I could have helped."

"Yes, quite." Eames grinned, that same fierce grin from the fire and a million missions and the baggage claim three years ago.

Before Arthur can stop himself, he rushed forward, pressed his lips to Eames's. It was strange and new and different and yet oh god it was exactly what he'd wanted, all this time. The first moment terrified him, as Eames sat passive and still under his mouth. But then Eames roared into life, that beautiful mouth working open and teeth and tongues and wet heat slicking around him.

When Arthur pulled away, it was because of the sound Eames made. A groan, and Arthur had panicked because who knew what Eames's internal injuries were, but that fear was quickly extinguished in the grasp of Eames's hands on Arthur's narrow hips, the speed with which Eames pulled him down onto the chaise and resumed the kiss.

"At some point," Arthur said, gasping as Eames worked at his neck, "I'll need to call Dom, tell him what's — agh, jesus fuck, Eames — what's going on."

"Of course, yes, quite right," Eames muttered into his neck, nipped and licked and sucked until Arthur, without meaning to, slipped a hand down the forger's trousers. "Are we eager, pet?" Eames said, pulling back with a sly grin.

"Hell yes, Eames. If you're up to it, I mean, um," and Arthur was afraid and fumbling again, what if, what if.

"Arthur, my dear, I am up for anything. See for yourself," and he slid Arthur's hand lower. Oh, yes indeed, Eames was up for anything.

The staff of the estate had been well-taught: unless Mr. Eames specifically calls out your name, do not respond or listen to any sounds coming from a room containing him. That some of them were tempted to peek in just to make sure none of the furniture had broken yet is a testament to the noise level.

—-

"Yeah, Dom, it's just…No, I know you need a point man, and I'm happy to work remotely. Send me what you…No, hang on," he placed one hand over the mouthpiece of his phone. "Eames, I swear to god, if you do not stop giving me hickeys while I'm on the phone I will do something very unpleasant."

Eames's face widened into that grin and he held up his hands, proclaiming his own innocence.

"Yeah, Dom, no, I'm here. No, I'm not coming back. Look, just m— no, don't hire Sheffield, you know he'll just fuck you over once the money's in. I'd get the one from Israel, what's her name? No, not Chavah, she's retired. The other—hang on," covered the mouthpiece again. "Eames, do you know who I'm talking about?"

"Rivka."

"Dom, yeah, Rivka. She's got that cafe near the Wall, try her. She's good, she'll take care of you. Okay. Yeah. Just email me. Okay. Kiss the kids for me. Yeah." He hung up the phone and gazed down at Eames, lying prone and smiling beside him in bed.

"What's the matter, pet?"

"I feel bad. Left him in the lurch, you know."

"He should retire, you know that. Go hug his kids, write a book, do anything but dreamwork for a while." Eames smiled lazily, reached for Arthur. "Come here, then, I'm bushed."

They slept, warm and soft and comfortable, and Arthur's last conscious thought was that they'd found a place to hide at last.


End file.
